writingmaelstrom surfing07 / 2025

power trip

I wrote this poem eight months ago.

my father's father was a chief,

back when that meant something,

they swore blood oaths and poured

libation out to the old gods,

they striped their cheeks like tigers,

wore ocean beads made by deep divers,

but maybe tradition is shallow.

tradition can't make the Naira any stronger,

it can't fill the potholes big enough to sleep in,

destitution has a way of making souls sag

and seeping deep into the bone.

be careful driving on the gutter,

you might fall into the street,

or you might lose electricity during a job interview,

after all, my grandfather was a chief

but our family home had no power.


Artwork by Buhle Nkalashe.

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